Chapter 4 ~ Variations ~ from "Bird Dogs, Their History and Achievements" by A. F. Hochwalt, 1922

..

Chapter 4

(~Excerpt~)
.

Variations

.

from:
"Bird Dogs, Their History
and Achievements"

.
by A. F. Hochwalt

.

Published by Sportsman Digest
.

Cincinnati (United States of America)
1922

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The foregoing chapters are devoted to the various family trees that go to make up the history of the English Setter in America, but there are certain variations that play a certain part in the evolution of the breed which deserves at least some mention.

Among such is the setter May Fly, imported by G. O. Smith, in 1901. May Fly came direct from the kennels of R. Purcell Llewellin, but he is not a Llewellin in the sense that it is understood in this country. In the pedigree of this dog is some of the Irish Setter blood which Llewellin introduced into his kennel before the days that he began experimenting with the Duke-Rhoebes.

At this juncture, it is expedient to point out that Mr. Llewellin was not so keen to keep the Duke-Rhoebe-Laverack blood unadulterated as his American satellites. When he found it necessary to introduce new blood, he did so and this new blood comes through some of the dogs that go to make up the breeding of May Fly.

Naturally, here in America, the one-hundred-percenters had little to do with May Fly, but others who were looking for bird dogs had no such qualms. May Fly proved to be a good influence through certain lines. He produced bird dogs and many of his daughters carried on this quality when bred to the regulation lines.

An instance of this is Commissioner, the dog which won the National Championship in 1912. In a direct line, May Fly produced a number of minor winners also, chief among which was Courier Journal.

Another dog which at the present time is prominently before the public is Phil's Speed Ben, owned by William Smathers, of Atlantic City, New Jersey. This dog comes through Phil S. which is by Prince Whitestone, the National Champion of 1907.

Prince, on his dam's side, had the Prince Lucifer blood which comes from Count Noble, though Prince Lucifer was an out-cross on his dam's side. The dam of Phil S. was Brit Fly, strong in the May Fly blood.

Consequently, it is easy to understand why Phil's Speed Ben, the son of Phil S., is a bird dog. He comes from bird dog families on all sides. Judge Endicott, owned by Allen B. Endicott, of Atlantic City, New Jersey, is a litter brother and fully as good but he died young ...

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Chapter 11 ~ The Pillars of Our Working Setters ~ Prominent Families ~ from "Bird Dogs, Their History and Achievements" by A. F. Hochwalt, 1922

.Chapter 11 (~Excerpts~)

The Pillars of

Our Working Setters
Prominent Families

from:

. "Bird Dogs, Their History

and Achievements"

.

by A. F. Hochwalt

.
Published by Sportsman Digest

.

Cincinnati (United States of America)

1922

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The six pillars upon which the field trial or general service setter rests in this country -- the American-Llewellin, if you will -- are Gladstone, Count Noble, Druid, Leicester, Bergundthal's Rake and Lincoln. Other lines of blood entered into the composition at various times and probably assisted quite materially in certain ways toward maintaining the high standard, but the novice wishing to get a working knowledge of setter breeding will do well to confine his studies to the main lines, always bearing in mind that the preponderance of this blood is found in all of our English Setters, even in our show dogs of today, except perhaps some of the exaggerated specimens that have been imported from the out-and-out English show strains in recent years or are descended from them.

.

GLADSTONE, the first on our list of six, was born in this country although his dam, Petrel, had been bred to Llewellin's Dan before she left England. L. H. Smith, of Ontario, Canada, was the purchaser of Petrel and his sole purpose in buying her was to obtain a litter of these setters. Thus, it might be said in perfect truth that some of the first cross-Llewellins were born in this country. Dan represented the Duke-Rhoebe side, Petrel the Laverack; the latter was absolutely useless in the field herself, but that was not an uncommon thing with the Laverack bitches of that day.
.

Bred to the vigorous Duke-Rhoebe's with their conglomeration of all kinds of blood, these rattle-brained nervous, gun-shy bitches possessing setter instincts, but unbalanced brains, became remarkable producers and Petrel is only one instance. The litter was whelped in the early summer of 1876. Mr. Smith had promised one of the puppies to P. H. Bryson of Memphis, Tennessee; the latter was traveling in the north for it was the Centennial year, and so he came a little further in that direction, making it a point to see the litter of puppies by Llewellin's Dan and Petrel. Out of this litter he picked the dog that afterward became known in the bird dog world as Gladstone.
.

Gladstone was a new note in many respects, for he was wide, fast and very difficult to handle, according to old standards, but the new idea of class was already beginning to creep into field trials. Gladstone was a success at field trials, though not invincible by any means, and on one occasion he was beaten by the native, Joe Jr., in the contest of two days where the number of points on quail was the sole method of judging the merits of the two dogs.

As a sire, Gladstone was a still greater success and his family to this day is still one of the important ones in the realms of the English Setter, for his bloodlines were perpetuated through his sons as well as his daughters. In Gladstone's time, all the other dogs making up the sextet previously mentioned were already in this country, some coming earlier or later, hence the opportunity for the "blue bloods" were practically unlimited even at this early day. Among Gladstone's sons, we have Gladstone's Boy, indubitably at the top of the list.

He was out of the famous Sue, by Druid out of Ruby. Sue produced to Gladstone besides Gladstone's Boy, Dan Gladstone, Sportsman, Breeze Gladstone and Keystone. All of them were more or less prominent in later pedigrees, though as individual performers they were not particularly brilliant. There was quite a diversity of type among these full brothers and probably the handsomest of the lot was Breeze Gladstone.

Dan Gladstone was short and rather low on the leg, resembling the Rhoebe side of the breeding. He was not a striking looking dog in appearance and in the field he could not be classed as a classy animal; as a matter of fact, in these days of keen competition it is extremely doubtful if he could have ever been placed at all. Dan Gladstone, however, was an influence in transmitting the Gladstone-Sue blood, and among the most prominent of his progeny was Dan's Lady, a winner herself and the founder of a famous family.

The dam of Dan's Lady was Lily Burges, which for a long time was excluded from the ranks of the so-called Llewellins because of her dam, which was Esther, through which came the blood of Armstrong's Old Kate whose pedigree was long held in doubt. However, since Kate's breeding was found to be the same as Barclay's Field Duke, the hiatus which existed was closed, and thus a great family of winners came into the fold of the purist, which all goes to illustrate how utterly absurd this idea is of calling certain lines of breeding a "distinct" breed.

Among the sons of Dan Gladstone, perhaps the most prominent was Ruby's Dan, a dog which was bought early in life by the late W. G. Comstock of Connecticut, in which state the dog became very prominent in field trials. Through Ruby's Dan came a number of notable field trial and shooting dogs, and one of the outstanding features of this family is that despite the fact of Dan Gladstone's plainness, the progeny that lived in New England were mostly handsome animals for Mr. Comstock bred along the lines that preserved type as well as field qualities. One of the latter exponents of this family was Master Rodfield, owned by Tracy S. Comstock, a nephew of the owner of Ruby's Dan, and it may be said in passing, that this gentleman still has a larger percentage of this blood in his kennels, which, it is needless to say he cherishes with solicitous care.

Breeze Gladstone was a frequent winner on the bench, eventually acquiring championship honors and those were not acquired at small shows either, but in the best of competition. It was at a period when bench show standards, as far as English Setters are concerned, were in the most chaotic state, for everything depended upon the judge, and it was not unusual to see a dog take high honors at one show and at the very next one drop down the V. H. C. or even lower.

When Breeze Gladstone came before a practical man, however, he was generally put to the top. I saw Breeze at the Columbus show in 1894 when he was in the bloom of his middle life, and I can vouch for it that for type and the real essential qualities in running gear, there were few setters of his day that should have beaten him, but at that period the bench show exaggerated types were coming into great prominence under some judges. This did not help matters but on the other hand, only had a tendency to widen the breach between the field setters and the show types. No doubt both sides went to the extremes, however.

Sportsman won the National American Derby at Canton, Mississippi, and then went on to the Pacific Coast where he proved to be quite an influence on the breed in that part of the country. Keystone, the last of the quintette of the Gladstone-Sues, did not earn a very prominent place either as a performer or as a sire.

Paul Gladstone was out of Lavalette, a half sister to Sue. He was a very fast dog in the field and a consistent winner on the bench, though he could scarcely be classed with Breeze Gladstone. He is remembered principally because of the fact that he produced Paul Bo, to the brilliant daughter of Count Noble, Bohemian Girl.

COUNT NOBLE, was bred by Llewellin, but came to this country as a very young dog, having been imported by David Sanborn, of Baltimore, Maryland. He was four years younger than Gladstone, consequently he appeared on the horizon at a most opportune time, for there were numerous daughters of the latter before the public and Count Noble nicked particularly well with them. Count Noble was farther removed from the fountainhead than Gladstone. His sire was Count Wind'em, the grandson of of Llewellin's Dan of the first Duke-Rhoebe cross, and his dam was Nora, which was a regulation cross Duke-Rhoebe.

David Sanborn, the American owner of Count Noble, did not like the dog at first, for he was one of those long, low setters, that are not attractive in repose; in action however, Count Noble was all that there was to be desired and on game he was the acme of intensity and style, though he had a tendency to false point, a trait that is handed down to this day. Count Noble himself, no doubt, reverted to old Duke in this respect, for the latter was a notorious false pointer.

As a sire, Count Noble surpassed Gladstone and in the matter of establishing families, he had no superiors in his day or since. Indeed it is to this dog that the field trial setter of today owes most of the prestige that was acquired during the last decade of the past century and the first of the present. His families were established through his sons, although he had some very good daughters, chief among which was Bohemian Girl, previously alluded to.

The late W. B. Shattue's beautiful Dido II, by Druid, out of Star, a champion on the bench, produced Count Noble's handsomest son. This was Cincinnatus, which also became a champion on the bench, but he was also a field trial winner and became the sire of Cincinnatus' Pride, a great winner in field trials and also a prominent bench winner. Pride was not used at stud to any great extent chiefly because at that time the craze for so-called "straight-breds" was at its greatest height and Cincinnatus' Pride had a small out-cross. Thus, a good individual was sacrificed which might not only have been an influence in preserving type, but also in transmitting field ability.

The great sons of Count Noble, however, those who founded marvelous families, were Gath, Roderigo, Count Gladstone IV and Eugene T. Compared with these four, all others sink into comparative insignificance ...

I must now revert to those other dogs of the original sextette which we have all but lost sight of in tracing the lines of Gladstone and Count Noble ...

BERGUNDTHAL'S RAKE, was one of the earliest importations of the "Field Trial Breed" as the Duke-Rhoebe-Laverack cross was called in those early days. Rake was imported in 1874 by C. F. Demuth of Fort Dodge, Iowa, but became the property of D. C. Bergundthal shortly afterward. Rake was only ten months old when he came to this country, consequently he received his practical education in the land of his enforced adoption. He was bred in the kennels of Purcell-Llewellin and it may be said in passing that the gentleman who so cleverly placed his name upon the breed in this country, but not in his own, was doing a lucrative business with bird dog loving Americans.

Rake was not the regulation half-and-half Duke-Rhoebe-Laverack. To be exact, he was twenty-five percent Laverack, twenty-five percent Duke and fifty percent Rhoebe, and he looked it from every angle. He was long, low and coarse. Heavily marked with black and possessing a head that was not in the least characteristic of an English Setter, he was one of the "fashionably bred" however, so what difference did it make. It was thought that with his preponderance of Rhoebe blood he would make an excellent cross with the Laverack bitches in this country, for at that early day these "blue bloods" were a very uncertain quantity.

Rake was bred promiscuously, but left nothing significant in the direct male line, though his daughters were valuable for the continuation of the strain which was being experimented with in America as well as in England. Rake's characteristics in externals are still to be seen in many of our setters of today.

LEICESTER, was the handsomest of the lot to come over. His blood proportions were fifty percent Laverack and, twenty-five percent Duke and twenty-five percent Rhoebe. His dam was the erratic, gun-shy Lill II, his sire was Llewellin's Dan. In markings, Leichester was white and lemon. He was whelped in July, 1872, and came over to the kennels of L. H. Smith in 1875, consequently he was fully matured, but not a field dog. On the bench, he made a good record, but in the field he was a decided failure, for he inherited all the most pronounced nervous traits so characteristic of the Laveracks.

Because of Leicester's excellent conformation, his influence was far-reaching in the preservation of the type, though it must be conceded, at a loss to other qualities. In a direct line, his progeny did not accomplish much though he has six winners to his credit. Through Dart, his blood was carried on to future generations. A performing son of his, Cambridge by name, became the sire of Dad Wilson, a champion on the bench. Clip, another daughter of his, produced London and Peep-O'-Day, the latter becoming the dam of Gath when she was bred to Count Noble.

DRUID, was imported by Arnold Burges in 1877. At that time the dog was nearly four years old. Like Leicester, he was fifty percent Laverack, twenty-five percent Duke and twenty-five percent Rhoebe, but his Laverack blood came through the male line. He was in field trials and on the bench before coming to this country. He was a blue belton in markings, of medium size and extremely good in essential parts.

Druid was temperamentally the opposite of Gladstone, more feminine in general characteristics, but not effeminate. Blended with the bold, daring, dashing types, his blood acted as a salutary softening influence that was particularly valuable in his day. This mild-manered disposition came mainly through his dam, Dora, which though masculine in appearance, possessed the most docile disposition imaginable.

Druid was a better bird dog than many of his contemporaries and he handed this quality down through his sons as well as through his daughters. As previously stated, Sue was one of the most noted daughters. Both she and Buckellew were out of Ruby, the Rake-Fanny bitch. The Druid-Ruby influence was a splendid influence on the breed and even to this day, breeders are always keen to obtain as much of this Druid-Ruby blood as possible. Other sons of Druid were Mingo and Ben Hill. Neither son was a field trial performer, however both were influential in producing winners.

LINCOLN, although mentioned last, is by far not the least of the sextette. He was a full brother of Leicester and in his markings, also orange and white, but here the similarity ends. Looking at the two dogs, no one, not knowing their breeding, could have imagined that they were brothers, so antithetical were they in physical and temperamental characteristics. Lincoln was one of the rough-and-ready sort, resembling the Duke-Rhoebe side; Leicester, all refinement and finish.

Lincoln was coarse, even common-looking, when not in action, but in the field he was a new incarnation. He was a bird dog, which his brother Leicester was not, and he had the most beautiful style or point imaginable. The records only give him three winners but his greatest claim to posterity arises in his non-performing son, Gleam. Through this branch came one of the most necessary families of that and later days. The Gleam blood was found to be great in all of its ramifications.

Gleam was by Lincoln, out of Blaze, a beatiful bitch which for a long time was not recognized as a Llewellin, because of her sire, Sam, a coarse liver and white dog supposed to represent some alien blood and for years excluded from the ranks of the Llewellinites, but this Gleam blood became a great factor and considering that the lines of the "blue bloods" were limited, it was necessary to look into this strong and potential influence which came through this family.

In finding a pedigree for Armstrong's Old Kate, the matter was cleared up and thus it came about that the Gleams were also taken into the fold. When all is said, it is unquestionably one of the best moves ever made in the breeding of the field trial setters and the next great move to help the breed will be to recognize all good English Setter lines, and disregard the fanciful theories that have worked as a handicap to a breed that should be in the foremost ranks for all time to come ...

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Chapter Four: His Story by Louisa May Alcott, from "Under the Lilacs"

.Illustration: Hy Hintermeister.

"I ran away from a circus," began Ben, but got no further, for Bab and Betty gave a simultaneous bounce of delight, and both cried out at once, -

"We've been to one! It was splendid!"

"You wouldn't think so if you knew as much about it as I do," answered Ben, with a sudden frown and wriggle, as if he still felt the smart of the blows he had received. "We don't call it splendid; do we, Sancho?" he added, making a queer noise, which caused the dog to growl and bang the floor irefully with his tail, as he lay close to his master's feet, getting acquainted with the new shoes they wore.

"How came you there?" asked Mrs. Moss, rather disturbed at the news.

"Why, my father was the 'Wild Hunter of the Plains.' Didn't you ever see or hear of him?" said Ben, as if surprised at her ignorance.

"Bless your heart, child, I haven't been to a circus this ten years, and I'm sure I don't remember what or who I saw then," answered Mrs. Moss, amused, yet touched by the son's evident admiration for his father.

"Didn't you see him?" demanded Ben, turning to the little girls.

"We saw Indians and tumbling men, and the Bounding Brothers of Borneo, and a clown and monkeys, and a little mite of a pony with blue eyes. Was he any of them?" answered Betty, innocently.

"Pooh! he didn't belong to that lot. He always rode two, four, six, eight horses to oncet, and I used to ride with him till I got too big. My father was A No. 1, and didn't do any thing but break horses and ride 'em," said Ben, with as much pride as if his parent had been a President.

"Is he dead?" asked Mrs. Moss.

"I don't know. Wish I did," - and poor Ben gave a gulp as if something rose in his throat and choked him.

"Tell us all about it, dear, and may be we can find out where he is," said Mrs. Moss, leaning forward to pat the shiny dark head that was suddenly bent over the dog.

"Yes, ma'am. I will, thank y'," and with an effort the boy steadied his voice and plunged into the middle of his story.

"Father was always good to me, and I liked bein' with him after granny died. I lived with her till I was seven; then father took me, and I was trained for rider. You jest oughter have seen me when I was a little feller all in white tights, and a gold belt, and pink riggin', standing' on father's shoulder, or hangin' on to old General's tail, and him gallopin' full pelt; or father ridin' three horses with me on his head wavin' flags, and every one clapping like fun."

"Oh, weren't you scared to pieces?" asked Betty, quaking at the mere thought.

"Not a bit. I liked it."

"So should I!" cried Bab enthusiastically.

"Then I drove the four ponies in the little chariot, when we paraded," continued Ben, "and I sat on the great ball up top of the grand car drawed by Hannibal and Nero. But I didn't like that, 'cause it was awful high and shaky, and the sun was hot, and the trees slapped my face, and my legs ached holdin' on."

"What's hanny bells and neroes?" demanded Betty.

"Big elephants. Father never let 'em put me up there, and they didn't darst till he was gone; then I had to, else they'd 'a' thrashed me."

"Didn't any one take your part?" asked Mrs. Moss.

"Yes, 'm, 'most all the ladies did; they were very good to me, 'specially 'Melia. She vowed she wouldn't go on in the Tunnymunt act if they didn't stop knockin' me round when I wouldn't help old Buck with the bears. So they had to stop it, 'cause she led first rate, and none of the other ladies rode half as well as 'Melia."

"Bears! oh, do tell about them!" exclaimed Bab, in great excitement, for at the only circus she had seen the animals were her delight.

"Buck had five of 'em, cross old fellers, and he showed 'em off. I played with 'em once, jest for fun, and he thought it would make a hit to have me show off instead of him. But they had a way of clawin' and huggin' that wasn't nice, and you couldn't never tell whether they were good-natured or ready to bite your head off. Buck was all over scars where they'd scratched and bit him, and I wasn't going to do it; and I didn't have to, owin' to Miss St. John's standin' by me like a good one."

"Who was Miss St. John?" asked Mrs. Moss, rather confused by the sudden introduction of new names and people.

"Why she was 'Melia, - Mrs. Smithers, the ringmaster's wife. His name wasn't Montgomery any more'n hers was St. John. They all change 'em to something fine on the bills, you know. Father used to be Senor Jose Montebello; and I was Master Adolphus Bloomsbury, after I stopped bein' a flyin' Coopid and a infant Progidy."

Mrs. Moss leaned back in her chair to laugh at that, greatly to the surprise of the little girls, who were much impressed with the elegance of these high-sounding names.

"Go on with your story, Ben, and tell why you ran away and what became of your Pa," she said, composing herself to listen, really interested in the child.

"Well, you see, father had a quarrel with old Smithers, and went off sudden last fall, just before tenting season' was over. He told me he was goin' to a great ridin' school in New York and when he was fixed he'd send for me. I was to stay in the museum and help Pedro with the trick business. He was a nice man and I liked him, and 'Melia was goin' to see to me, and I didn't mind for awhile. But father didn't send for me, and I began to have horrid times. If it hadn't been for 'Melia and Sancho I would have cut away long before I did."

"What did you have to do?"

"Lots of things, for times was dull and I was smart. Smithers said so, any way, and I had to tumble up lively when he gave the word. I didn't mind doin' tricks or showin' off Sancho, for father trained him, and he always did well with me. But they wanted me to drink gin to keep me small, and I wouldn't, 'cause father didn't like that kind of thing. I used to ride tip-top, and that just suited me till I got a fall and hurt my back; but I had to go on all the same, though I ached dreadful, and used to tumble off, I was so dizzy and weak."

"What a brute that man must have been! Why didn't 'Melia put a stop to it?" asked Mrs. Moss, indignantly.

"She died, ma'am, and then there was no one left but Sanch; so I run away."

Then Ben fell to patting his dog again, to hide the tears he could not keep from coming at the thought of the kind friend he had lost.

"What did you mean to do?"

"Find father; but I couldn't, for he wasn't at the ridin' school, and they told me he had gone out West to buy mustangs for a man who wanted a lot. So then I was in a fix, for I couldn't go to father, didn't know jest where he was, and I wouldn't sneak back to Smithers to be abused. Tried to make 'em take me at the ridin' school, but they didn't want a boy, and I travelled along and tried to get work. But I'd have starved if it hadn't been for Sanch. I left him tied up when I ran off, for fear they'd say I stole him. He's a very valuable dog, ma'am, the best trick dog I ever see, and they'd want him back more than they would me. He belongs to father, and I hated to leave him; but I did. I hooked it one dark night, and never thought I'd see him ag'in. Next mornin' I was eatin' breakfast in a barn miles away, and dreadful lonesome, when he came tearin' in, all mud and wet, with a great piece of rope draggin'. He'd gnawed it and come after me, and wouldn't go back or be lost; and I'll never leave him again, will I, dear old feller?"

Sancho had listened to this portion of the tale with intense interest, and when Ben spoke to him he stood straight up, put both paws on the boy's shoulders, licked his face with a world of dumb affection in his yellow eyes, and gave a little whine which said as plainly as words, -

"Cheer up, little master; fathers may vanish and friends die, but I never will desert you."

Ben hugged him close and smiled over his curly, white head at the little girls, who clapped their hands at the pleasing tableau, and then went to pat and fondle the good creature, assuring him that they entirely forgave the theft of the cake and the new dinner-pail. Inspired by these endearments and certain private signals given by Ben, Sancho suddenly burst away to perform all his best antics with unusual grace and dexterity.

Bab and Betty danced about the room with rapture, while Mrs. Moss declared she was almost afraid to have such a wonderfully intelligent animal in the house. Praises of his dog pleased Ben more than praises of himself, and when the confusion had subsided he entertained his audience with a lively account of Sancho's cleverness, fidelity, and the various adventures in which he had nobly borne his part.

While he talked, Mrs. Moss was making up her mind about him, and when he came to an end of his dog's perfections, she said, gravely, -

"If I can find something for you to do, would you like to stay here awhile?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I'd be glad to!" answered Ben, eagerly; for the place seemed home-like already, and the good woman almost as motherly as the departed Mrs. Smithers.

"Well, I'll step over to the Squire's to-morrow to see what he says. Shouldn't wonder if he'd take you for a chore-boy, if you are as smart as you say. He always has one in the summer, and I haven't seen any round yet. Can you drive cows?"

"Hope so;" and Ben gave a shrug, as if it was a very unnecessary question to put to a person who had driven four calico ponies in a gilded chariot.

"It mayn't be as lively as riding elephants and playing with bears, but it is respectable; and I guess you'll be happier switching Brindle and Buttercup than being switched yourself," said Mrs. Moss, shaking her head at him with a smile.

"I guess I will, ma'am," answered Ben, with sudden meekness, remembering the trials from which he had escaped.

Very soon after this, he was sent off For a good night's sleep in the back bedroom, with Sancho to watch over him. But both found it difficult to slumber till the racket overhead subsided; for Bab insisted on playing she was a bear and devouring poor Betty, in spite of her wails, till their mother came up and put an end to it by threatening to send Ben and his dog away in the morning, if the girls "didn't behave and be as still as mice."

This they solemnly promised; and they were soon dreaming of gilded cars and mouldy coaches, runaway boys and dinner-pails, dancing dogs and twirling teacups.

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The Road to Tinkamtown

.

."The past never changes," he mused.

"You leave it and go on to the present,

but it is still there,

waiting for you to come back ..."

,

"The Road to Tinkhamtown"

By Corey Ford

.

Condensed from:

"The Best of Corey Ford"

.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.

....It was a long way, but he knew where he was going. He would follow the road through the woods and over the crest of a hill and down to the stream, and cross the sagging timbers of the bridge, and on the other side would be the place called Tinkhamtown.

.

....He walked slowly at first, his legs dragging with each step. He had not walked for almost a year, and his flanks had shriveled from lying in bed so long. Doc Towle had said he would never walk again, but that was Doc for you, always on the pessimistic side. Why, now he was walking quite easily, once he had started.

.
....It was hard to see the old road, choked with alders and covered with matted leaves, and he shut his eyes so he could see it better. He could always see it when he shut his eyes. Yes, here was the beaver dam on the right, just as he remembered it, and the flooded stretch where he had picked his way from hummock to hummock while the dog splashed unconcernedly in front of him.

.

....The water had been over his boot tops in one place, and sure enough, as he waded it now, his left boot filled with water again, the same warm, squidgy feeling. Everything was the way it had been that afternoon ten years ago. Here was the blowdown across the road that he had clambered over, and here on a knoll was the clump of thorn apples where a grouse had flushed as they passed. Shad had wanted to look for it, but he had whistled him back. They were looking for Tinkhamtown.

.

....He had come across the name on a map in the town library. He used to study the old survey charts of the state; sometimes they showed where a farming community had flourished, a century ago; and around the abandoned pastures and in the orchards grown up to pine, the birds would be feeding undisturbed. Some of his best grouse covers had been located that way.

.

....He had drawn a rough sketch of the map on the back of an envelope, noting where the road left the highway and ran north to a fork and then turned east and crossed a stream that was not even named; and the next morning he and Shad had set out together to find the place.

.

....They could not drive very far in the Jeep, because wash-outs had gutted the roadbed and laid bare the ledges and boulders. He had stuffed the sketch inside his hunting-coat pocket, and hung his shotgun over his forearm and started walking, the setter trotting ahead with the bell on his collar tinkling. It was an old-fashioned sleigh bell, and it had a thin silvery note that echoed through the woods like peepers in the spring. He could follow the sound in the thickest cover, and when it stopped he would go to where he heard it last and Shad would be on point. After Shad's death, he had put the bell away.

.

....It was silent in the woods without the bell, and the way was longer than he remembered. He should have come to the big hill by now. Maybe he'd taken the wrong turn back at the fork. He thrust a hand into his hunting coat; the envelope with the sketch was still in the pocket. He sat down on a flat rock to get his bearings, and then he realized, with a surge of excitement, that he had stopped on this very rock for lunch ten years ago.

.

....Here was the wax paper from his sandwich, tucked in a crevice and here was the hollow in the leaves where Shad had stretched out beside him. He looked up, and through the trees he could see the hill.

.

....He rose and started walking again, carrying his shotgun. The woods grew more dense as he climbed, but here and there a shaft of sunlight slanted through the trees.

.

....He paused on the crest of the hill, straining his ears for the faint mutter of the stream below him, but he could not hear it because of the voices. He wished they would stop talking, so he could hear the stream. Someone was saying his name, over and over.

.
...."Frank, Frank."

.

....He opened his eyes reluctantly. It was his sister. He tried to tell her where he was going, but when he moved his lips the words would not form.

.

...."What did you say, Frank?" she asked, bending her head lower.

.

...."I don't understand."

.

....He couldn't make the word any clearer, and she straightened and said to Doc Towle: "It sounded like Tinkhamtown."

.

...."Tinkhamtown?" Doc shook his head.

.

...."Never heard him mention any place by that name."

.

....He smiled to himself. Of course he'd never mentioned it to Doc. Things like a secret grouse cover you didn't mention to anyone, not even to as close a friend as Doc was. No, he and Shad were the only ones who knew. They had found it together, that long-ago afternoon, and it was their secret. He shut his eyes again so he could see it clearly.

.
....They had come to the stream, and Shad had trotted across the bridge. He had followed more cautiously, avoiding the loose planks. On the other side of the stream the road mounted steeply to a clearing in the woods, and he halted before the split-stone foundation of a house, the first of a series of farms shown on the map.

.

....Shad's bell had been moving along the stone wall at the edge of the clearing and he had strolled after him, thinking about the people who had gone away and left their walls to crumble and their buildings to collapse under the winter snows.

.

....Had they ever come back to Tinkhamtown? Were they here now, watching him unseen? His toe stubbed against a block of hewn granite hidden by briers, part of the sill of the old barn. Once it had been a tight barn, warm with cattle steaming in their stalls.

.

....He liked to think of it that way; it was more real than this bare rectangle of blocks. He'd always felt that way about the past. Doc used to argue that what's over is over, but he would insist Doc was wrong.

.

....Everything is the way it was, he'd tell Doc. The past never changes.

.

....You leave it and go to the present, but it is still there, waiting for you to come back.

.

....He had been so wrapped in his thoughts that he had not realized Shad's bell had stopped. He hurried across the clearing, holding his gun ready. In a corner of the stone wall an ancient apple tree had littered the ground with fallen fruit, and beneath it Shad was standing motionless.

.

....The white fan of his tail was lifted a little and his backline was level, the neck craned forward, one foreleg cocked. His throat was tight, the way it always got when Shad was on point, and he had to swallow hard.

.

...."Steady, I'm coming."

.
...."I think his lips moved just now," his sister's voice said.

.

....What was she doing here, he wondered. Why had she come all the way from California to see him? It was the first time they had seen each other since she was married. He had heard from her now and then, but it was always the same letter: Why didn't he sell the old place? Why didn't he take a small apartment in town where he wouldn't be alone? But he liked the big house, and he wasn't alone, not with Shad.

.

....He had never married; Shad was his family. There was a closeness between them that he did not feel for anyone else, not his sister or even Doc. He and Shad used to talk without words, each knowing what the other was thinking, and they could always find one another in the woods.

.

....They had not hunted again after Tinkhamtown. The old dog had stumbled several times, walking back to the jeep, and he had been forced to carry him in his arms the last hundred yards. It was hard to realize he was gone.

.

....Sometimes at night, lying awake with the pain in his legs, he would hear the scratch of claws on the floor, and he would turn on the light and the room would be empty. But when he turned the light off he would hear the scratching again, and he would be content and drop off to sleep, or what passed for sleep in days and nights that ran together without dusk or dawn.

.
....Once he asked Doc point-blank if he would ever get well. Doc was giving him something for the pain, and he hesitated a moment and finished what he was doing and cleaned the needle and then looked at him and said "I'm afraid not, Frank."

.

....They had grown up in the town together, and Doc knew him too well to lie.

.

...."I'm afraid there's nothing to do." Nothing to do but lie there and wait till it was over.

.

...."Tell me, Doc," he whispered, for his voice wasn't very strong, "what happens when it's over?"

.

....And Doc fumbled with the catch of his black bag and closed it and said well he supposed you went on to someplace called the Hereafter. But he shook his head. "No, it isn't someplace else," he said.

.

...."It's someplace you've been where you want to be again."

.

....Doc didn't understand, and he couldn't explain it any better. He knew what he meant, but the shot was taking effect and he was tired.

.
....He was tired now, too, and his legs ached a little as he started down the hill, trying to find the stream. It was too dark under the trees to see the sketch he had drawn, and he could not tell direction by the moss on the north side of the trunks.

.

....The moss grew all around them, swelling them out of size, and huge blowdowns blocked his way. Their upended roots were black and misshapen, and now instead of excitement he felt a surge of panic. He floundered through a file of slash, his legs throbbing with pain as the sharp points stabbed him, but he did not have the strength to get to the other side and he had to back out again and circle.

.

....He did not know where he was going. It was getting late, and he had lost the way.

.

....There was no sound in the woods, nothing to guide him, nothing but his sister's chair creaking and her breath catching now and then in a dry sob.

.

....She wanted him to turn back, and Doc wanted him to; they all wanted him to turn back. He thought of the big house; if he left it alone, it would fall in with the winter snows, and cottonwoods would grow in the cellar hole. And there were all the other doubts, but most of all there was the fear.

.

....He was afraid of the darkness, and being alone, and not knowing where he was going. It would be better to turn around and go back. He knew the way back.

.

....And then he heard it, echoing through the woods like peepers in the spring, the thin silvery tinkle of a sleigh bell. He started running toward it, following the sound down the hill. His legs were strong again, and he hurdled the blowdown, he leaped over fallen logs, he put one fingertip on a pile of slash and sailed over it like a grouse skimming.

.

....He was getting nearer and the sound filled his ear louder than a thousand church bells ringing, louder than all the choirs in the sky, as loud as the pounding of his hearts. The fear was gone; he was not lost. He had the bell to guide him now.

.

....He came to the stream and paused for a moment at the bridge. He wanted to tell them he was happy, if they only knew how happy he was, but when he opened his eyes he could not see them anymore. Everything else was bright, but the room was dark.

.

....The bell had stopped, and he looked across the stream. The other side was bathed in sunshine, and he could see the road mounting steeply, and the clearing in the woods, and the apple tree in a corner of the stone wall. Shad was standing motionless beneath it, the white fan of his tail lifted, his neck craned forward and one foreleg cocked. The whites of his eyes showed as he looked back, waiting for him.

.

...."Steady," he called. "Steady, boy." He started across the bridge. "I'm coming."

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